In the throes of the twisted fever dream that was Pelican Park, I found myself accosted by Doug, a man sporting a grin that consisted of a few lonely teeth. His eyes, wild and bloodshot, pierced my very soul.
"Have you seen the council man?" he barked, his voice cracking like thunder.
"No," I replied, my gaze darting around, seeking the source of our impending doom.
"He was taking pictures of our cars, man."
Our paths had crossed before, Doug and I. We were both denizens of this godforsaken wasteland called Pelican Park, the final refuge for those whose dreams had been chewed up and spat out by society. We lived in our vehicles, each one a monument to the cruel joke of the Auastralian Dream.
"The bastards," I snarled, introducing myself as Tom and vowing to write a letter of protest to the council. Doug's van, a rusted-out hulk, housed both him and his loyal Border Collie, Samuel. He rambled on about the sheer impossibility of finding a place with a canine companion. His girlfriend's car was parked nearby, a silent reminder of her absence; she was in jail.
I concurred, for finding shelter was an ordeal even without a four-legged friend.
Doug had acquired Samuel as a pup, a constant companion in a world gone mad. "He's not concerned if I'm rich or poor, and Samuel is always there for me," Doug confided. He also fed the magpies, a small gesture of kindness in a sea of despair.
The Breakfast Club, a food delivery van, arrived twice a week at 6 pm to sustain us, the wretched souls of Pelican Park. Doug had been living this life, out of a van, for the last ten years. "And no, I only accept cash in hand," he declared when he worked. A man who despised the government, he had been cut off from the dole. "Simply because I didn't jump through the hoops I was expected to in order to get the payments," he lamented, referring to the soulless job providers who raked in billions of federally funded dollars while terrorizing the very people they were supposed to serve.
Andy, another lost soul from our tribe, sported an earring in his ear and nose, a long goatee, and tats decorating his body: a wild, inky woman with flowing hair on one arm, a dragon on the back of one calf, and a smoking skull on the other. "Yeah, the tattooist was fond of smoking the dragon," he confirmed, grinning, "but boy, he had an imagination."
During his infamous four-day benders, Andy would take a baseball bat and embark on a rampage of fly-swatting destruction. "Did a lot of damage to my van, that time," he admitted, ruefully surveying the carnage.
Doug vanished into the ether with another lost soul from our tribe, a fellow named Andy. Both were truck drivers, teetering on the brink of oblivion. Andy, during a booze-fueled night with AC/DC blaring in the background, had hurled a bag of excrement at a window, shattering it. The memory was a hazy blur, lost in the fog of inebriation.
They embarked on a pilgrimage to the Salvation Army, seeking food coupons and perhaps a shred of hope. And I, the self-appointed scribe of our motley crew, set out to defend the honor of the misfits and outcasts that called Pelican Park home.
Doug relied on charity to feed himself and his steadfast companion, Samuel, taking him for runs on a women's bike he had picked up for free at a garage sale.
With the assistance of Open GPT, a machine of cold logic and silicon, I forged a letter of protest to the Moreton Bay Shire—a howl of rage that echoed through the digital void. The AI's words, though devoid of human emotion, were aflame with righteous fury.
As we clung to the fringes of society, huddled together in the boat parking lot of Pelican Park, our battle for dignity and recognition raged on. Buoyed by the strength of our makeshift family and the strange, disembodied voice of an artificial intelligence, we found hope amidst the chaos.
The AI assistant feverishly typed away, crafting a letter to the Moreton Bay Shire that channeled the rage of the downtrodden:
Hey, Moreton Bay Shire,
Today, some council goon went berserk at Pelican Park, branding folks with trailers as homeless losers. The guy spewed venom and snapped pics without permission. Invasion of privacy much? Didn't even identify himself!
Could've asked what's up. Nope! Just assumed we're all abusing the place. Way off base, buddy. Investigate this lawless council jerk, or I'm taking it further. Happened May 2nd, 2023, pre-10 am.
Yours in fury,
A pissed-off ratepayer.
Doug, a man accustomed to being beaten and abused but harboring a gentle soul, looked on with pride as I typed the letter. His eyes, once wild and bloodshot, now glistened with gratitude that someone would bother to care for him and his comrades in this forsaken corner of the world. It was a small gesture, but to Doug, it meant that someone saw him, recognized his humanity, and was willing to stand up against the injustices that had battered him for so long.
As we stood there, defiant in the face of the oppressive system that sought to crush our spirits, the letter became a symbol of our collective will to fight. For Doug, Andy, Samuel, and all the other ragged souls clinging to the fringes of society, it was a testament to our resolve. Together, we would battle for our dignity and our right to exist in a world that seemed hell-bent on casting us aside.
